Shifted [z.m au]

VII. The Murderer.

◾ mur·der·er

noun:
/ ˈmərdərər /

a person who commits murder; a killer.

-

The knife blade glowed dully in the yellow lamplight. Dark purple stains ran down the blade, onto the desktop. Rivoulets of dried blood.

I stared at the knife until it blurred before my eyes. It isn't real, I thought.

I'm not staring at a blood-caked knife on Zayn's desk. I'm not. I'm not!

I tried to blink it away. But it would not leave. It was real. A real knife. A kitchen knife. A black handled kitchen knife.

I took a deep breath, then another. Then I made my way closer to the desk.

The knife stood upright. The blade had been plunged into the desk.

As I drew closer, I saw that the handle was also streaked with blood.

Such a big knife, all covered in blood. Why is it here? Why is it sticking up from the desk in Zayn's room?

My hands pressed tightly against the sides of my face—Zayn's face. I took another step closer.

The blade had been stabbed through a sheet of paper. A sheet of lined notebook paper.

A dark thumbprint smudged the bottom of the page. The thumbprint was dark purple. A thumbprint made of blood.

Struggling to focus my eyes, I saw writing on the paper. Scrawled handwriting in dark blue ink. Three lines writing above the spot where the knife punetured the paper.

Squinting in the hazy light, I leaned close to the desk and read the scrawled words:

I had to kill them.

I couldn't take it anymore.

Z . M

I shallowed hard. I had to force myself to breathe. "No!" I cried, backing away. "No! Please—no!" I backed up until I reached the bed. Then I dropped onto the smooth bedspread and buried my head in my hands.

I shut my eyes tight, but I could still see the scrawled words in my mind. The scrawled confession. Zayn's confession.

He had murdered both of his parents. Stabbed them. Slashed them. Then plunged the murder weapon into the desk.

And then. He took all of his clothes? Escaped with all of his clothes?

No. That made no sense.

I opened my eyes. Glanced up. Caught of glimpse of myself—Zayn's face in the dresser mirror.

That glimpse made me realize the full horror. That one-second glimpse made everything come clear.

Zayn had murdered his parents. He wrote his confession. Left the murder weapon in his room for all to see.

Then he shifted bodies with me!

Now here I sat. Zayn. I was Zayn.

I was the murderer!

And Zayn had escaped by becoming Rena. Zayn escaped by becoming me, and I became the murderer.

"Baby, this was my idea, remember? I knew exactly what I was getting into."